


Brilliant & Ridiculous

by maderr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Oblivious, Silly, Snark, fluff and nonsense, magic! stiles, top!stiles bottom!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderr/pseuds/maderr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Derek wanted was for the woman to leave him alone and ring up his groceries. How that led to her thinking Stiles is his boyfriend is something he blames on Stiles and his inability to stay out of trouble for five minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant & Ridiculous

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Гениально и нелепо](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269746) by [meanwhile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanwhile/pseuds/meanwhile)



> This story contains nothing of substance. I adore accidental and fake relationship tropes, I love Stiles and Derek snarking at each other, and people keep giving me access to keyboards.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely Rios for the beta job. Any lingering errors are my fault entirely, and I apologize.
> 
> If you stop to read, all my love and thanks to you.

Derek tensed as he saw the woman he'd been hoping to avoid at the cash register—the only cash register open even though it wasn't all that late, because life never cut him enough slack to have someone else on duty no matter what day of the week it was.

 

Grabbing a basket, he pulled out his list and tried to focus on the groceries and avoid thinking about the trials of checkout until he absolutely had to deal with them. Unfortunately, eating alone made for a short list. He really needed to find a bearable grocery store with self-checkout.

 

Well, best to get it over with—wasn't like he didn't know how to play the game. He could play the game very well. He just didn't want to. Sighing, he dragged himself to the checkout and set everything on the belt, waiting impatiently for her to start ringing everything up.

 

"Hi!" she said cheerfully, pushing back her poorly-dyed blue hair, bright pink nails gleaming. She ignored his groceries in favor of staring at him. Whatever perfume she was wearing was noxious enough to set his head to throbbing, even without turning on his werewolf senses. "How are you tonight, …?"

 

"Busy," Derek replied, pointedly ignoring—again—her unsubtle attempts to get his name. He was so determined she not get it, he continuously paid in cash just so she couldn't get it off his card. It was stupid and futile, because he was notorious enough around town, and his family still well-remembered, that getting it wouldn't be hard. He'd be damned if he made it even easier, though.

 

She mock pouted at him. "Hot date?"

 

"Something like that," Derek muttered, wishing she would just _ring up his damn groceries._ He motioned to them. "Do you mind?"

 

She offered a brittle smile and got to work, and he almost asked if she was feeling okay because normally she was much pushier, flaunting her chest and asking prying questions and just generally reminding him of every single unpleasant moment with bitch one and bitch two that he wanted desperately to erase from his mind.

 

Much like the rest of his life, however, there was no erasing the memories, merely ignoring them until the bright, searing colors finally faded.

 

"So who's your hot date? Girlfriend? Someone new?"

 

On a sudden impulse, one that probably proved he'd spent the past few years up to his eyebrows in teenagers, Derek said, "Boyfriend."

 

"Oh." Jeez, he almost felt sorry for her—except, no, there she was rallying, couldn't take a hint even when that hint was 'I like boys, not girls'. "What's his name?"

 

Derek started to finally tell her to fuck off, because really, he could only be polite so long. He was distracted from losing his temper by the sudden buzzing of his phone. Yanking it out of the pocket of his jacket, he looked in surprise and trepidation at the name flashing. Hitting the receive button, he barked, "What's wrong, Stiles?"

 

_"Hypothetically speaking, if say, I tried to investigate a suspicious looking tree and accidentally woke up a bird woman from hell—"_

 

"Damn it, Stiles!" Derek snapped. "I'm going to kill you myself one of these days. Where are you?"

 

_"The preserve, way at the far east edge. I was—"_ his words were cut off by a shriek and a colorful choice of words that only Stiles would string together in precisely that order. The phone went dead.

 

Derek swore and shoved his phone back in his pocket, turned to bolt. Couldn't that idiot stay out of trouble?

 

"Hey!"

 

He stopped purely as a reflex, half-turned to look over his shoulder. "What?"

 

"Is that him?"

 

"What?" Derek has no idea what she was talking about. When he saw she about to keep talking, he said, "Yes," and ran off before she could stop him again.

 

Outside, he threw himself into the Camaro and drove off, racing toward the preserve.

 

By the time he reached Stiles, the idiot was hiding in a hollow formed by the exposed roots of an enormous tree. The harpy was trying to get to him, but to judge from the way she kept snarling and shrieking he'd managed warding of some sort. An idiot, but a smart idiot.

 

"You don't want him," Derek called out. "He's really stringy."

 

"I am all delicious, healthy lean meat," Stiles replied indignantly.

 

Derek ignored him in favor of launching himself at the harpy. _Ugh_ , he forgot how much their talons hurt. Every time he thought he was used to pain he was reminded that no, it came in too many flavors to ever memorize them all.

 

He spit out blood and feathers. "Hey, stringy! You can come out now that I've saved your ass. Again."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles groused, slowly climbing up out of the roots. He brushed away dirt and feathers, as if Derek wouldn't notice Stiles was avoiding looking at him.

 

Derek closed the space between them and dropped an arm across Stiles' shoulders, bending down to say, "What did I tell you about coming all the way out here by yourself?"

 

Stiles huffed. "I had to practice my magic! These wards aren't going to learn themselves."

 

"Wait until someone can go with you," Derek said. "There's a novel idea." He squeezed Stiles' shoulder tightly.

 

Jabbing him in the chest with a long finger, Stiles replied, " _Anyway_ , I felt something funky and then I saw that weird ass tree. I only meant to get a quick look, I didn’t know Psycho Feather Bitch from Hell would come exploding out of it. Seriously."

 

"Seriously," Derek mimicked, just to see Stiles' pissed off face. "It's a wonder to me you're still breathing."

 

"The feeling is mutual," Stiles replied, shrugging his arm off. "On the bright side, I did finally master the latest set of wards I'm working on."

 

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would you stop mastering this stuff via the School of Immediate Threat of Death and Dismemberment?" Stiles gave him a look that said that joke was beneath him, and started looking around, kneeling because he no doubt thought that would help him see better in the dark. "Your phone is over there, and over there." Derek pointed to the spots where he could see the broken remains of it.

 

"Ugh," Stiles said, raking a hand through his hair. "That's, like, the fourth one this semester. This is why we can't have nice things."

 

Snorting, Derek pulled out his own new phone. "I've had mine for six months. I think by 'we' you mean 'just you'. Now come on, the temperature is dropping fast and if I have to listen to you whine about the cold on the walk back I'm going to bury you in the woods. _Alive."_

 

"Save your threats for someone who doesn't know they're emptier than the part of Scott's brain marked 'common sense'."

 

Derek almost laughed at that, but he refused to ever give Stiles the satisfaction of laughing at anything he said. "You have no room to talk about lack of common sense."

 

"I think if we're going to start down that road, we will be in these dark, really cold woods the rest of the millennia. Go on, deny it."

 

"Shut up and walk faster."

 

Stiles shot him a satisfied smile, one of those that drove Derek crazy in approximately one hundred ways.

 

Derek refused to acknowledge it, and they continued on in silence as they trudged through the woods back to where Derek had parked his car. He kept alert for further dangers, especially since Stiles was never going to learn the art of _move quietly and stealthily._ He swore Stiles managed to find every single pile of dry leaves and broken twig on the forest floor. But if there was anything out there, it had decided attacking them involved more effort than they were willing to put forth.

 

They reached Derek's car after thirty minutes or so of walking, and it was only then he noticed Stiles’ car was strangely absent—but there was a bike propped against the dirty lamp post, because that was the smart choice when tromping around woods at night casting magic and poking at harpy nests.

 

"Uh—thanks," Stiles said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. "Again."

 

Derek grunted. "Stop going into the woods alone. How hard is that?"

 

Stiles sighed. "Come on! There shouldn't be that many things left, statistically speaking. We've been defensively murdering living nightmares and alarmingly-alive dubious substances since I was in high school. I graduate college in one more semester! How many violent assholes could possibly be left in these stupid trees?" He swung his arms all about, as if that would emphasize to the aforementioned Assholes of the Forest that they had no business being there anymore. "Never mind there are thousands of acres of forest, how do I always find the _one_ acre with a new feature creature."

 

"It's you," Derek replied. "You're a witch, which makes you apple pie a la mode for most of these things. Of course they're going to find you, especially when you _wander around late at night and poke its nest with sticks."_

 

"I didn't poke it with sticks," Stiles muttered. "It was one stupid rock."

 

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know why I bother saving you."

 

"Because I'm _apple pie a la mode_ to you, too, wolfikins."

 

"Please never say any word in that sentence again."

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. "Oh, go away already, you big puppy. You saved me, all is well, you are free to go back to whatever you were doing."

 

"Get in the car, Stiles. Where is yours, anyway?"

 

"I'm still paying it off; that beauty isn't getting anywhere near these woods. Or you."

 

Derek rolled his eyes and slid into the driver's seat, driving off while Stiles was still trying to get settled, smirking when he squawked in protest. "What were you even working on that you had to do it at eight-thirty at night in the middle of the forest like I am always telling you not to do?"

 

" _Oh,_ my god. Stop repeating yourself. I was working on some new wards. It's not my fault that my magic always works best here, and is the safest place to try new stuff. The forest likes me, even if everything in it wants to eat me with a scoop of ice cream."

 

"I hate you."

 

Stiles grinned.

 

Derek glared at him before pulling onto the main road and hauling back into town. "Some of us were doing normal stuff—"

 

"You wouldn't know normal if it punched you in the face."

 

"You owe me," Derek said, ignoring him.

 

Stiles gave a long sigh. "Baby."

 

"You forced me to abandon my groceries! I could be at home relaxing right now, and so could you, but no—you owe me!"

 

"Oh, _my_ god, fine. What?"

 

Derek waited until a red light, then dug out his wallet and grocery list, shoving them into Stiles' hands just as the light changed.

 

"Come on!" Stiles protested. "There's like barely anything on this list. It probably took you like five minutes, six if they were out of your ice cream and you had to scowl at the freezer section for a bit."

 

Derek ignored him, except to glare briefly.

 

He just barely caught Stiles rolling his eyes before he focused on the road again. "Ugh. This is the thanks I get for wanting to come back home every break, while everyone else is off finding themselves like a bad made for TV movie?"

 

"They're not _finding themselves,_ " Derek said with a snort.

 

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Training, school, don't care," Stiles replied. He huffed as they reached the grocery store. "Are you coming in?"

 

Derek just looked at the wallet he'd given Stiles. "Make it quick."

 

"Baby," Stiles muttered, clambering out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him before jogging into the store. Derek took advantage of the silence to scroll through his email, smiling briefly at message from Boyd, Eric, and Isaac. At least the training and school were going well, though part of him was just waiting for something to go horribly, violently wrong.

 

He sighed and shoved his phone back in his pocket, then messed with the radio until he found something tolerable. He was just about to pull the phone out again and send Stiles a terse message when he came ambling out of the store, swinging a bulging bag of groceries and laughing so hard Derek was impressed he didn't fall over. He was still laughing himself silly when he climbed into the car. Derek sighed and drove off, knowing he'd find out the reason for the amusement whether he wanted to or not.

 

Sure enough, half way to Stiles' apartment, Stiles finally said, "Why does that woman in the grocery store think I'm your boyfriend?"

 

Derek slammed his brakes at the light. "What?" He scowled. "All I told her was that I had a boyfriend, so she'd leave me alone. I never said who …" He trailed off as the last few seconds of conversation with her replayed, then let his head thunk against the steering wheel. "Damn it. Not on purpose."

 

Stiles started laughing all over again. "Poor Derek. But that's okay. You saved me from the harpy, I saved you from the cashier. But you're doing your own shopping from here on out. Also, they were out of your ice cream."

 

"They weren't _before_ I had to save you," Derek said bitterly.

 

"Shake it off."

 

"I'm going to shake you. To death."

 

Stiles didn't bother to reply to that. "Rest assured, wolfie, that I did not call shenanigans on your fib and she remains convinced you chose to stick with me instead of jumping ship for her. But you totally owe me one 'get out of the forest alive _without_ incessant bitching'."

 

"Ugh," Derek said, and pulled up in front of Stiles’ apartment building. "Get out."

 

"See ya," Stiles said. When he was part way down the walk to his building, he half turned to give a cheerful wave goodnight—and nearly killed himself tripping and falling into the snow. Derek rolled down the window to laugh at him, still laughing as he drove off, Stiles flying the bird in his rearview mirror.

 

*~*~*

 

Because the universe worked in confounding, frustrating ways, of course Derek was ambushed by the girl the next day.

 

The deli was actually his second favorite; his number one was always overrun with students during the winter and summer breaks and it was either go second best or go mass murder, so he settled for a slightly subpar steak & cheese. Normally the place was staffed by a couple of quiet guys and a woman with some truly impressive tattoos; it had been that way since he'd moved back to Beacon Hills.

 

So it was a nasty shock to look up from his phone to see _her_ standing at the counter. Her face brightened immediately upon seeing him, but clouded in the next moment. Thankfully before she could speak, one of the guys greeted him with a nod and a sleepy, "Hey, Derek. Usual?"

 

He nodded and pulled out his wallet, handing over a ten. "Keep the change," he said, since she wouldn't know that was the routine.

 

"Thanks!" she said, inexplicably cheerful—but then again, cheerful never made sense to Derek no matter who was doing it. "I met your boyfriend last night. He seems nice."

 

Derek had called Stiles every insult under the sun. He'd threatened him, and hurt him, and wanted to kill him more times than he could count—and even _he_ could think of a dozen adjectives better than _nice_ to describe Stiles. He didn't know why it annoyed the hell out of him, but it did. "He's great, thanks."

 

"He's very, uh, expressive," she added hastily. "Totally gushed about you though, jeez. It's sweet he got your groceries after you had to go save him at that bar."

 

Derek just grunted and took the sandwich one of the guys slid across the counter for him with an apologetic look. Muttering farewells, he beat a retreat back to his car. Lunch obtained, he had only to get through the trials and tribulations of the laundromat and then it was just football and dinner the rest of the evening. He might miss his pack, but he wasn't going to complain about the peace and quiet and being able to watch a game without nine thousand interruptions.

 

He pulled into the laundromat, swiping the spot right in front of it from a grouchy looking guy in a Prius. Hauling his hamper in one hand, his lunch and laptop in the other, he slipped inside and set up operations in the quietest corner he could find, driving away the couple of kids already there with a glare.

 

Throwing his clothes in two washers, scowling around to ensure they would be left alone, he went to a vending machine to grab a soda. He was just sitting down to enjoy his sandwich when he heard an all too familiar wail. _"Are you kidding me, you satanic washer? I gave you money!"_

 

Derek stifled a sigh and tried to ignore it, but he was too well-trained to ignore Stiles in distress. Even if distress was 'inability to properly use a washing machine.' Since when did Stiles use the laundromat, anyway? Derek was half-certain he had his own washer and dryer.

 

Abandoning his sandwich, annoyed he would have to eat it cold now, he looped around the bank of washers and stared at where Stiles was currently glaring and muttering as he moved his clothes from one washing machine to another. He slammed the lid shut, then fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the card needed to use the machines, and swiped it. He pounded a fist on the washer. "What do you mean—argh, I wouldn't be out of money if you asshole machines would stop stealing it!" He pulled out his wallet, then sighed and beat his head against the front of the washing machine. "Screw this day. Could it possibly get any worse? Please, universe, _do not answer that._ "

 

"I would have thought you'd be smart enough to operate a washing machine, Stiles, if only barely."

 

"Screw you," Stiles groused, only jumping slightly. "Of _course_ you're here. If you're going to plague me with your presence, be a good boyfriend and give me a couple of bucks."

 

Derek rolled his eyes, but walked down the bank of washers and pulled out his own card, swiping it and punching buttons until the washer started working. "You're on your own for the dryer."

 

"Awww, come on! Don't be a stingy boyfriend!"

 

"Do I need to remind you that I'm happy to murder you with my teeth?" Derek asked, narrowing his eyes when Stiles latched onto his arm and followed Derek back to his table. "Let. Go."

 

Stiles let go and walked off—but he was back two seconds later with all his own stuff, cheerfully spreading it about, pushing Derek's sandwich and soda to the very edge of the table. "So have you been attacked by any more lusty cashiers today?"

 

"She works at the deli now," Derek said, annoyed all over again.

 

“Tough break," Stiles said around the pencil in his mouth.

 

Derek stifled a sigh and gave up any hope of peace and quiet. "She told me you were nice. Clearly she doesn't know you."

 

"I am way better than nice, screw her. I'm an awesome boyfriend, and prove that even you can eventually make an intelligent decision. Hey, theoretically speaking—"

 

"I hate those three words, especially when you say them," Derek muttered.

 

" _Theoretically speaking,_ " Stiles muscled on, "if I were to get in a shipment of wolfsbane-infused cherry wood ash—"

 

"I will make you swallow it," Derek cut in, and took a bite of his sandwich.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes and went back to the book he was reading, something bound in soft leather with handwritten pages that smelled like old book and cats. Derek wrinkled his nose and took another bite of his sandwich. He looked up just in time to catch Stiles' hungry look, and only then noticed that the perpetual pile of 'study snacks' Stiles always had with him was absent.

 

Derek shoved the other half of his sandwich across the mess of books and papers, then stood up to go check his laundry. He waited impatiently for it to finish the last handful of minutes, then hauled everything over to the dryers, scowled at the handful of nearby idiots to make certain no one sniped his dryer time, then finally returned to his table.

 

"Thanks," Stiles said. "It's been a shitty day. Like, you'd think after werewolves and swamp monster and wendigo and harpies and all that other shit, that waking up to a flooded apartment and a canceled internship and a busted fridge would be small potatoes. But I am telling you, those kids upstairs are really lucky I'm only allowed to use my powers for good." He stabbed viciously at his keyboard.

 

"Is the apartment replacing your fridge?"

 

"Once the water is no longer ankle deep, sure. I have no fucking clue when that will be, though, the entire building is one lake monster away from a shitty sequel."

 

Derek felt a familiar prickle of alarm along the back of his neck. "Do you really think it's supernatural?"

 

Stiles shook his head. "I triple checked before I left. I almost wish it was, because then I could fix the problem. As it is, the problem is 'gross incompetence on the part of the staff' and—" he broke off as his email chimed. It reminded Derek he had work of his own to get done, but there seemed little point anymore. "Are you freaking kidding me!?" Stiles shrieked. "The entire building is fucked. We've been told to collect what we can and alternate accommodations will be arranged—what is this shit? I'm not living in the Motel 6 for an indeterminate length of time."

 

"Go stay with your dad," Derek said.

 

"I can't," Stiles said glumly. "He's having, like, eighty percent of the house overhauled. He's not staying with him; he's shacked up with Scott's mom for now. Ugh, if I wind up in the Motel 6 for all of winter break I am going to hex that jerk so hard. That's magic for good, right?"

 

Derek snorted and finished his soda, then went to throw away the trash and switch over Stiles' laundry. When he returned, Stiles was once more buried in his books and notes, muttering to himself about wards and incantations. Having given up any hope of getting work done, Derek pulled out the paperback in his jacket and settled for reading.

 

After a few minutes he went to check on the laundry, throwing his in his hamper and leaving it closer to Stiles. He kept reading in front of the dryer until it chimed, then hauled all the laundry back to the table, grabbed his things, and said, "Have fun at the Motel 6."

 

Stiles didn't even look up, he was so immersed in something written in … Derek had no idea. Shaking his head, he headed out to his car and threw everything in the trunk.

 

Twenty minutes later he got a text. _OH MY GOD SORRY THANKS._

 

Derek texted back that Stiles owed him a sandwich, then shoved his phone in his pocket and went to haul his laundry into the house.

 

*~*~*

 

He'd just gotten comfortable in bed, idly dithering between sleep, or jacking off and then sleep, when he heard Stiles' shiny new Jeep coming down the road. Sighing, Derek rolled out of bed and pulled on the sweatpants he'd left on the floor. He padded down the stairs to the front hall and opened the door just as Stiles pulled into the driveway.

 

Fear rolled off him like sweat off a jock, and Derek reached out to catch him as Stiles came barreling up the porch—and yelped as he realized Derek was already there. "Um."

 

"Calm down," Derek said, squeezing his arms until some of the tension eased. Stiles stepped in closer, as if only proximity to Derek would save him. More likely, he was just trying to get inside. "D-d-demon!" Stiles said. "Derek, there's a fucking demon! At the Motel 6! I think it might have smelled me—"

 

Derek yanked Stiles into the house and closed the door, locking it before he hauled Stiles into the living room. "Where at the Motel 6?"

 

"Running it! Checking people in! I only noticed in time because I was looking at the stars and trying to calculate—" Stiles glared, unamused by the fingers Derek had clapped over his mouth. But the indignation in his eyes was preferable to the fear.

 

"What does it look like?" Derek asked, then slowly removed his fingers, absently noting that Stiles' lips were slightly chapped, but soft. He dismissed the strange observation. "Were you able to determine what kind of demon?"

 

"Does it really matter?" Stiles snapped. "Pasty white, orange hair, bad teeth, smells like rotted ass. I couldn't get close enough to peg the type for sure, but I think incubus. We should—"

 

"Kill it in the morning, when it's bloated and tired from feeding," Derek interrupted. "If it's an incubus, it's not going to kill anyone, just leave them exhausted. If it was killing people we would have heard about it already. We're not fighting a demon in the dead of night while it's hunting. Even you aren't that stupid."

 

As expected, Stiles couldn’t let that jab go unanswered, usual humor flaring a he retorted, "You mean even _you_ aren't that stupid."

 

"I'm not the one with a demon bounty on my head, am I?" Derek replied.

 

"Ugh."

 

Derek gave him a shove toward the hall. "You smell. Go shower. I'll get your stuff. And ward the guest room!" He left before Stiles could reply, stomping down the walk to Stiles' shiny new black Jeep, completely unsurprised that the moron had left his keys in the ignition.

 

Jeez, his apartment really was well and truly fucked. It looked like he'd crammed the entire thing into his Jeep. Derek shook his head and hauled out an enormous duffle, Stiles' laptop case, and two boxes of books he did not want left out where anyone could find them.

 

He set it all on the sidewalk, locked the Jeep and pocketed the keys, then finally hauled everything into his house—a house that he'd managed to keep intact for nine months and counting. If something happened to it, Derek was going to give up civilized living and pitch a fucking tent somewhere.

 

Closing the door with his heel, he carried everything into the living room then went back to lock the door. He could hear water running through the pipes, one of many things on his long to do list for the creaky, old house.

 

Lifting the duffle bag, he hauled it upstairs and opened the bathroom door long enough to drop it in. Back downstairs, he warmed up a mug of milk and scared up a bag of chips, leaving it all in the living room before ducking back into his office to try and get some work done since sleep was obviously out of the question for a few hours.

 

He listened, waited, until he heard Stiles snoring softly on the couch. Idiot. He was so predictable. Saving his work and shutting down his computer, Derek went upstairs to get dressed. Twenty minutes later he strode into the Motel 6 a few blocks south of Stiles' apartment building.

 

The demon looked—and smelled—exactly as Stiles had said. Derek walked up to the counter and offered the clerk a smile full of sharp teeth.

 

He always forgot just how hard demons could hit. He grunted and spit out a tooth as he picked himself up off the pavement, shaking off glass from the window he'd gone through. The demon came at him, all teeth and claws and acid-green eyes. Derek nailed him in the jaw, then lunged and raked long wounds down his chest. He slammed the demon up against the wall. "You aren't welcome here. Get out or I'll make certain there's nothing left of you."

 

"Fuck off, you stupid rabid dog," the demon hissed, getting enough leverage to knee Derek in the balls and shove him back. Derek regained his feet, but only in time to catch a knife in the gut—a knife laced with wolfsbane. The poison seared through him, hot and twisting. God, he was so tired of _pain_. Derek fell to his knees, grunted as the demon backhanded him, a ring or something tearing Derek's cheek wide open. He spat out blood, tried to focus his blurred vision. "You here about that boy I smelled earlier? He was marked. I'd get a lot of power if I dragged that bounty—" His words were cut off with a pained cry as Derek rendered his lower legs useless for standing.

 

But demons recovered faster than even wolves, and the damned demon wasn't _poisoned_. Derek threw up, hating the taste of black bile, grunted in pain as the demon sank sharp-tipped fingers into his hair and yanked his head up. "You're pretty when you’ve not gone rabid," the demon purred. "A pity I can't suck you dry, I'm told Alphas last a _very_ long time. I've always wanted—"

 

Whatever the demon had always wanted, Derek never heard, because just as the smell of Stiles registered the demon burst into blame. Derek grunted and fell back on the pavement, managed to crawl out of harm's way as Stiles continued to torch the demon.

 

Stiles offered the dying demon a smile full of teeth, fierce as any wolf. "Funny thing about 'holy water' I learned—any liquid will do, as long as it's blessed. That's why 'holy water burns' is kind of accurate, kind of inaccurate. This is my own special mix, with a little magic kick. Tell your bros I said hi, assface."

 

The demon said something before he died, but Derek had no idea what. The last thing he heard was, "Oh, my GOD, you're such a hypocrite!"

 

He woke up on the floor of his kitchen, linoleum ice cold against his back, body still sore and achy from having to heal too much too fast. The smell of burned wolfsbane made his nose and eyes burn. "Ugh," he managed.

 

"I agree," Stiles said, cracking a yawn as he sat back on his heels. "At least you're still amongst the living."

 

Derek grunted and sat up, rubbing away the lingering aches. "How did you get me all the way back here?"

 

Stiles made a face as he fell back on his ass and slumped against the cabinets right below the kitchen sink. "I am unfortunately an old hand at lugging around 10-ton werewolves, and police sirens are great motivation. I'm sure my dad will be around eventually. Did you know your car needs an oil change?"

 

"It was on my to do list for tomorrow," Derek said and finally climbed to his feet. "You were supposed to stay here."

 

Stiles looked at him, face full of _I want to punch you in your stupid werewolf face_. "Somebody told me we would kill it in the morning. I really should have known that was code for _wait until Stiles falls asleep and then go solve the problem by myself_ because even after all these years you are a stupid, stubborn, must-suffer-alone _moron._ "

 

"You say the sweetest things," Derek drawled.

 

"It's easy to see how you couldn't resist me," Stiles agreed as he reached up one long arm to wrap fingers around the edge of the counter and haul himself up. He got about half way before he looked ready to say fuck it and sleep on the floor. Derek looped an arm around his waist and hauled him up. "You're lucky I woke up and realized I'd been played, dumbass. Why didn't you wait? Facing a demon alone is like—"

 

"Going into the woods alone?"

 

Stiles made a face. "That's nowhere near as dangerous as going one on one with a _demon_."

 

"A demon that would have gone after you in two more seconds. It knew you were there; it was just waiting for a chance to claim the bounty. No way in hell was I giving it more time to plan and call in help."

 

"Oh, my god, Derek. I'm way past being locked in towers for my own safety. Do I need to remind you who torched it?" Derek snorted and turned away. Stiles sighed. "You don't automatically win arguments just because you walk away from them. It's not fun showing up in the middle of the fight to see you almost dead, you know. That doesn't get easier after seven, almost eight, years. _Asshole._ "

 

Tension coiled in Derek, winding tighter and tighter as it sought for an outlet it couldn't find. He wanted—needed—to do something, but had no idea what. He settled for going into the laundry room and stripping off his ruined clothes, throwing them in the hamper meant for things that had to be burned. He pulled a clean pair of sweatpants from another basket and pulled them on, then grabbed another pair for Stiles.

 

He tossed them as he stepped back into the kitchen, ignoring Stiles' grumbling as he quickly changed and then carried his own filthy clothes into the laundry room. Derek half-listened as he griped about how Derek needed to get around to replacing the washer and dryer Isaac had accidentally totaled a couple months ago, getting a pot of coffee going because there was no point in going to sleep until Stiles' father showed up.

 

Stiles wandered back into the kitchen, trying to speak around a yawn and failing miserably. The coffee machine beeped and Derek poured them both coffee, handing one off to Stiles as he headed out of the kitchen. Stiles trailed behind him, slurping hot coffee and muttering about his burned tongue. Derek rolled his eyes, but didn't comment, just settled on his couch and sipped at his own, enjoying the warmth of the coffee and the cool dark of the room.

 

" _Oh_ , my god, why is your house always so cold?" Stiles said. He pulled a fuzzy blanket he'd dragged over at some point, Derek couldn't remember when exactly, and bundled up in it before settling on the other end of the couch. "Stupid werewolves, you should learn to share that body heat with people who would actually appreciate it."

 

Derek froze for a moment, taken aback by the way that damned tension still thrumming through him suddenly kicked up another notch. No. Absolutely not. It was stupid and ridiculous and he wasn't going there. Snorting softly, he replied, "Flattered, but I'm going to take a rain check."

 

Stiles rolled his eyes in that melodramatic way of his. "You wish. Shut up."

 

"Yeah, I'm the one who needs to shut up."

 

"Ugh," Stiles replied, pointedly focusing on his coffee.

 

Derek finished his own and set the cup on the side table, then settled back and closed his eyes. He just wanted to be in bed, warm and dead to the world. He could feel it as Stiles settled, heard when his breathing shifted from awake to dozing to dead asleep. Lingering traces of ash and blood made Derek wrinkle his nose, but it wasn't enough to overwhelm the stronger, warm and familiar scent of coffee, magic, and hint of citrus that was Stiles' scent.

 

Something about his thoughts should perturb him more, but the pressing, pleasant weight of sleep was too great for him to figure out what.

 

He snapped awake as he heard the front door open, but relaxed at the familiar tread of the Sheriff's footsteps. Derek grunted and lifted a hand to scrub at his face, tried to sit up and abruptly realized there was something on him—someone, specifically. Not even bothering to wonder how he and Stiles had shifted so much, he maneuvered until he managed to roll to the floor, leaving Stiles to groan and mutter sleepily.

 

Standing, Derek yawned and then greeted, "Sheriff. Sorry for the trouble."

 

Sheriff shook his head. "What was it?"

 

"Demon."

 

The sheriff's mouth tightened. "Dead?"

 

"Yeah, burned to ash," Derek replied, and the tension in the Sheriff's shoulders eased some. No one had been happy the day Stiles killed a high-ranking demon and gotten a bounty put on his head. It had been bad for a good year and a half as every creature in existence ventured into Beacon Hills to take out the witch with a promise of power and wealth on his head.

 

Sighing, the Sheriff stared down at his sleeping son, who snuffled and snorted and blinked up at them—then snapped awake and jerked upright. "Dad!"

 

"Son," the Sheriff said dryly. "Cause enough trouble for one night?"

 

"Didn't mean to," Stiles said, and shot Derek a glare. "Somebody said we'd wait until morning and then snuck off on his own like the Level 100 Dumbass he is and almost got dead."

 

Derek's brows rose. "Who sauntered off into the woods and threw rocks at a harpy?"

 

"At least I didn't piss off a jack frost in the middle—"

 

"Boys," the Sheriff cut in. "I know you like to play the 'who is dumber' game, but do it later. I just came by to let you know it's all cleaned up and taken care of, and to make sure you're okay. Clearly you're both fine." He looked between them and folded his arms across his chest. "While I'm here and have you both, anything you want to tell me?"

 

Derek frowned. What would they have to tell him? Well, there was the harpy, but he assumed Stiles had taken care of that. He looked at Stiles, who shook his head. "Dad, I told you about the harpy."

 

"Not that. Nothing supernatural," the Sheriff said with that tone of careful patience Derek knew all too well. People used that tone a lot with him, and he hated to admit that it was merited two thirds of the time.

 

They exchanged a blank look, and shook their heads. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Dad," Stiles said. "I swear we're not hiding anything."

 

The Sheriff sighed. "No? Because I've heard about it all over the place today. Girl at the grocery store—" Derek groaned and sat down on the couch, shoving Stiles out of the way. He buried his face in his hands as the Sheriff continued speaking. "—kept asking me some rather personal questions. There was an altercation at the laundromat I had to sort out and people there were gossiping about you two. Went to grab lunch and the guys at the deli said I must be thrilled because Derek is 'totally awesome'. Half the station keeps asking me about it, and I'm kind of pissed I'm the last to hear about this."

 

Stiles flailed and Derek finally pulled his hands away from his face. "Dad, we're not dating! That chick at the grocery store misunderstood something Derek said. I don't know where everyone else is getting their crazy ideas. If I was with Derek—" his face scrunched up like he could not even fathom something so ridiculous. Derek agreed. "Just, no, dude. We're not."

 

"Huh," was all the Sheriff said, and gave them a long look. Stiles scowled, but the Sheriff only shook his head. "Hear anything more about your apartment?"

 

"Only that it's basically doomed," Stiles said glumly. "The flooding problem was apparently the breaking point. People are screaming about codes and lawyers and lynch mobs. I'll probably just find somewhere to crash for a couple of weeks before I have to haul back to school, then find a new apartment when I get back."

 

"House should be ready by then, you can always stay there for a bit if you need to," the Sheriff replied. "Somehow, I think you'll have other plans by then, though."

 

Stiles looked at his father like he suspected a pod person. "Yeah, okay. Can't you go, like, file paperwork or arrest someone? You're being weird."

 

"Uh-huh," the Sheriff replied. "Stay out of trouble for a couple of days at least, alright? Call me if there's anything I need to know." He cast them a last, pensive, faintly amused look before he left, closing and locking the door behind him.

 

Derek sighed and turned to stretch out on the couch, ignoring Stiles' squawk of disapproval when he dropped his legs over Stiles' lap. Settling more comfortably, he closed his eyes.

  
"You are not going back to sleep while I'm trapped here, fleabag!" Stiles said, and tried to shove his legs off. When Derek's legs didn't move, he gave them a hard pinch.

 

"Hey!" Derek said, legs twitching. Stiles used the chance to shove them off, nearly toppling Derek from the couch.

 

Stiles flipped him off as he stood up. "I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

 

"It's my house," Derek said, but Stiles was already gone. Heaving a sigh, Derek stood and dragged himself up to his own bedroom, snorting in amusement as he passed the guest room where Stiles' was already holed up, singing to himself as he moved around the room doing whatever it was Stiles did before bed.

 

In his own room, Derek stripped off his sweatpants, fell into bed, and was asleep within seconds.

 

*~*~*

 

"Since when do you take your car to oil change places?" Stiles asked as he reached Derek and held out a large Styrofoam cup, steam curling, the smell of coffee drifting on the cold morning breeze.

 

Derek grunted, momentarily improved mood plummeting again. "Since half the damned neighborhood decided me working on my car was a spectator sport." He tensed at the memory of all the damned women that came over to chat and giggle and flirt, like a man in a tank top working on his car was a strange sight.

 

Stiles, true to form, just laughed so hard he nearly knocked himself over, head butting against Derek's arm, coffee retained only because he hadn't yet taken the lid off. "Poor Derek. Able to fight off kanima, manticores, mermaids, and demons, but soundly defeated by cashiers and housewives." He looked up, grinning. "Don't worry, I'll protect you from those big, bad ordinary folk."

 

Lifting a hand, Derek covered Stiles' face and shoved him away. "I can handle people just fine."

 

"Uh-huh."

 

Derek didn't bother replying to that, just snatched away the bag Stiles was holding, keeping it out of reach when Stiles lunged for it.

 

"Ohmygod, give me back my blueberry muffins, you asshole!" Stiles said, and tried again to snatch it back, huffing when Derek just moved out of the way. "What are you, twelve?" Stiles demanded. "Give it back!"

 

"No," Derek said, and started to taunt further when the guy finally came back with his keys and rambled on about his car, giving Stiles an opening to reclaim the bag, crowing loudly before making short, horrifying work of his breakfast. "You're disgusting," Derek said as they drove off.

 

Stiles swallowed a last bite of muffin and licked crumbs from his lips. "Whatever. If you hadn't been a jackass I would have given you one."

 

"I don't want your crappy stale muffins," Derek replied.

 

"Liar."

 

Derek made a face, not bothering to look away from the intersection where they waited forever for the light to change. "Why the hell are you here, anyway? I hardly needed an escort for an oil change."

 

"Apparently you do," Stiles retorted. "I'm here because I have nowhere to go until I can find a place to crash."

 

"Motel 6 threw you out before you could even show up?"

 

Stiles made a face, head thunking against the window. "I went over there this morning, before you woke up. That place was gross central and I'm not comfortable with a married man making 'fuck me' eyes at me, especially when he has an all access pass to the rooms. I called a few people, but right now I am SOL on finding a place to crash for a couple of weeks. It's like nobody wants to put up with my sweet, charming, gorgeous self." Derek said nothing, but the look on his face was enough, to judge by the hostile look Stiles shot him. "Shut up, you know I'm hot. You're the one dating me."

 

"I will lock you in my trunk for the rest of the day," Derek said, rolling his eyes when Stiles laughed. "You keep making dumbass boyfriend jokes and your father is going to arrest us both for being a pain in his ass."

 

Stiles shrugged as only the son of the Sheriff could when threatened with arrest. Derek shook his head, far less blasé about the idea of being put in cuffs again. The fact nothing human could hold him was of no reassurance. He hated being caged like a wild animal.

 

His hands tightened on the steering wheel as memories tried to rise up, chest suddenly too tight and every breath painful to draw. Sounds he normally filtered out broke through his defenses, made him flinch. Derek jerked the wheel as some asshole cut him off—

 

Long, warm fingers curled around his neck, right below his ear to his nape, caressing the barest bit. Just like that the world went quiet again, and Derek was able to draw a breath that didn't hurt.

 

"Man, you have got to stop going broody in traffic," Stiles said, slowly withdrawing his hand.

 

The feel of his warm fingers lingered. It always did, on the rare occasion Stiles brought him out of his moods. The first few times, Stiles had punched him. Then he'd yanked Derek's hair, or flicked his ear; on one memorable occasion he'd bitten the shit out of Derek's lip. He couldn't remember when Stiles had stopped using violent means. When it had turned into fingers on his neck, or resting on his hand.

 

After a few minutes Stiles turned the radio to one of the few stations they could agree upon. Derek took a swallow of his coffee, then said, "You may as well stop looking for a place. We both know I'm going to be stuck with you for two weeks, since it would take you that long to find somewhere to crash. I'd probably be putting up with you anyway since you can't stay out of trouble for five minutes." He pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store.

 

"I can't stay out of trouble?" Stiles demanded as they walked into the store. "Who can't even drive across town without going into 'oh, my life is full of suffering' mode? Admit it, you'd be lost without me, wolfie."

 

Derek ignored that and pulled out his shopping list.

 

Stiles snatched it out of his hand. "Your handwriting sucks, by the way."

 

Snatching it back, Derek grabbed a cart and stalked off into the store, headed for produce.

 

It took them an hour and a half to shop, though how Derek wound up with approximately five hundred more items than was on his short list, he couldn't say. Stiles looked entirely too smug and cheerful, though, which just made Derek itch for revenge.

 

He was so busy bickering about cereal and promising to shove it down Stiles throat, box and all, he didn't notice until too late that they'd managed to get in line at the register manned by his grocery store nemesis. She smiled mechanically and murmured a perfunctory, "Good afternoon," as she began to ring everything up.

 

"Hi!" Stiles greeted, and began to indignantly relate how much of a jerk Derek was for maligning Fruit Loops. Derek _accidentally_ stamped on his foot, smiling when Stiles shot him a look full of death.

 

They both jumped when the girl giggled. "You two are cute together, I gotta admit." She smiled and finished ringing up their purchases. Derek swiped his card before Stiles could even get his wallet out.

 

"Hey!" Stiles said. "I said—"

 

"I don't listen to even a fourth of the things that come out of your mouth," Derek retorted. "I'd gag you if I thought it would accomplish anything."

 

Stiles' mouth curved in a way that screamed _danger_ and Derek realized too late the opening he'd left for Stiles to move in for a kill. "Tsk, Derek If you're going to go there, you should go all the way and say 'I'd rather put something in it'."

 

The girl made a sound like she was literally choking on a combination of mortification and hysterical giggles, face turning bright red as she tried to retain her composure. Derek glared, and Stiles' mouth curved into that evil, crooked grin of his as he made the situation worse. "Now you're supposed to make a joke about spankings."

 

Derek opened his mouth to threaten him with violence, but that _smirk_ made his skin itch. Nobody got under it like Stiles, and Derek wondered suddenly how long that had been true. Instead of his usual empty threats of bodily harm, he met the challenge, the dare, in that maddening smirk. "Spankings? The way you've been acting all day, I thought you angling for the handcuffs."

 

Stiles' jaw dropped, cheeks going a vibrant red.

 

Resisting the urge to grin, Derek turned away and began to bag and load up their groceries. He nodded farewell to the girl, who was pink-faced and still giggling, heading out to his car with an oddly quiet Stiles trailing behind him.

 

They loaded the groceries into the car, and Stiles took the cart away. Derek slid into the driver's seat and started the car, driving off once Stiles was settled. He counted down the seconds, smiling faintly when Stiles finally burst as he hit zero. "I can't believe you made a handcuff joke! I can't believe _you_ made a _handcuff_ joke."

 

Derek shot him a look, offended. "I can make jokes."

 

"You don't make handcuff jokes!"

 

"You were asking for it."

 

"You never make those kinds of jokes. You're more dry humor and the sort of cutting sarcasm people don't realize is sarcasm until an hour later and then they spend the rest of the day bitterly contriving witty replies they'll never be able to use."

  
Derek rolled his eyes. "You're exhausting."

 

"You're confounding!"

 

"Stop yelling."

 

"Stop being confounding."

 

"Stop being dramatic."

 

"Oh, my _god_ , stop it. All of it." Stiles slumped forward and began banging his head against the dashboard.

 

Derek left him to suffer until they reached his house, then slipped a hand under him and pressed firmly against his chest, forcing Stiles upright again. "Don't give yourself a concussion. I'll be the one in handcuffs in a decidedly unpleasant way."

 

"I sincerely doubt you've ever been in handcuffs in a pleasant way," Stiles said dryly. "Sexy handcuffs don't really strike me as your thing."

 

"You're an idiot," Derek said, falling back on the tried and true and _safe_. He was used to thinking of Stiles in very specific ways. A few minutes of screwing around in the grocery store was putting cracks in the walls that kept other ways of seeing Stiles firmly shut out.

 

Escaping the car, flexing his fingers until the feel of Stiles finally left, he popped the trunk and gathered up the groceries to haul inside. He dropped all the bags on the kitchen table then turned around—and slammed into Stiles, reached out reflexively to keep him from toppling as Stiles yelped and stumbled backward.

 

He scowled at Derek, rubbing at his nose. "Breaking my nose with your cement muscles will not get you out of this conversation."

 

"No," Derek said flatly.

 

"You don't even know why you're saying no."

 

Derek made a face and tried to move away, but the hands that fell on his chest stopped him short. Why did it have to be _Stiles_ who understood that touch mattered. It had been used against him so many times, more times than Derek liked to count, but it never stopped being something he wanted no matter how hard he tried. Stiles had been an asshole dozens, hundreds of times, but he'd never abused that small bit of knowledge. "It's a bad idea," Derek said flatly.

 

"You're just saying that because you're convinced every time you want nice things it must be a bad idea. Yet you're convinced that your shitty plans for supernatural pest control are good ideas even though they typically suck. Your wires are crossed."

 

"That's funny coming from you," Derek said. "Your ideas suck, too."

 

Stiles scoffed. "My ideas are brilliant. I'm brilliant. And my brilliance trumps your stupidity, therefore if we're both having the same idea, it's a good one."

 

"I think you suck at logic," Derek replied.

 

"Shut up," Stiles said. "I'm the best idea ever, don't even try to deny it." Derek had a scathing reply to that, but it was lost in the eager press of Stiles' mouth against his, the warm hands that slid up to wrap around his neck, fingers that tugged lightly at his hair until Derek obeyed and began to return the kiss.

 

It didn't surprise him that Stiles kissed the same way he did everything else—full measure, all in, no hesitation or second guessing. The same stubborn, stupid, all or nothing determination that made it so easy to adapt to werewolves, to learn magic, to piss off the nastiest demons in hell and live to tell the tale. He was everything that made humans dangerous, but put together in a way that made it shockingly easy to pull him closer and kiss him until he moaned and whimpered.

 

Stiles gulped for air when Derek drew back, pupils blown, face flushed, all but vibrating with pent up energy. He gave a slow, hot grin that Derek had never seen before, made it hard not to stare at his mouth, wet and red, used and begging to be used harder. "I told you I was a good idea."

 

"Shut up," Derek said, and yanked him close again, grunting when Stiles moved at the same time, sending them back so Derek collided with the table. Groceries fell to the floor, he was pretty certain his eggs were goners, but he didn't care because Stiles was proving to be all sorts of talented with his tongue. Derek spread his legs, pulled Stiles to stand between his thighs.

 

Not once had he ever thought of Stiles in such fashion, but once that wall crumbled the thought consumed him and he could not put his hands everywhere fast enough. Every shift, every moan, every twitched muscle and hitched breath was more distracting than the shrillest bell or the acrid stench of demon. Stiles always smelled of magic: dried roses and the forest after a thunderstorm, with a faint hint of something citrusy that Derek had encountered nowhere else. Tangled with the scent of lust, it was heady. Derek rumbled softly and shoved hands beneath Stiles' shirt, pulled back enough to yank it off, nuzzling against soft, warm skin, absorbing that scent, desperate somehow never to forget it.

 

Long fingers carded through his hair, trailed along the back of his neck. Derek nuzzled his way up to Stiles' mouth, swallowing a soft huff of laughter as he explored it all over again, hands mapping skin, noting every touch that made Stiles twitch or shiver. Drawing back, he sucked and nibbled at Stiles' bottom lip, slid into another kiss, unable to draw away until a sharp tug of his hair made him.

 

"So are we doing this on the floor or table, cause I'm not opposed necessarily, but experience has taught me that floors are hard and tables fraught with peril—" He broke off with a startled, offended noise as Derek smacked his ass. "It's a legit question!"

 

Derek snorted and pushed him away so he could stand up properly, then shoved him toward the archway that led out to the hall where the stairs were located. Stiles led the way, but froze and let out a squeak when Derek crowded up behind him and scraped teeth along the back of his neck. "Jeez, I'm glad I never thought of this before. You're distracting when you switch into sexy times mode."

 

"Shut _up_ ," Derek replied, and let go long enough they managed to get upstairs and down the hall to Derek's room. They'd barely gotten inside when Stiles was on him, shoving Derek's jacket off and then tackling his shirt, fingers gliding with familiarity over his skin, pausing occasionally to linger over a spot.

 

It took Derek a beat before he figured out it was all the places he'd been stabbed, clawed, shot, or otherwise injured. He barely remembered it all himself, not the details like that, and it hurt to breathe as he realized that Stiles _did._ He cupped Stiles face and dragged him in, kissed him hard, suddenly ravenous.

 

Stiles made a soft, ragged noise against his mouth as he kissed back just as fervently, nails digging into Derek's skin, a firm pressure but not enough to tip into even a mild pain. They both tried to turn, move toward the bed at the same time, winding up only in a tripping, tumbling mess that ended with Derek on his back and Stiles crashing down on top of him, forehead slamming into Derek's nose, not quite breaking it but leaving his eyes watering even as the pain vanished as quickly as it had come. "You're ridiculous," he said.

 

"You're ridiculous," Stiles muttered, nipping at his collarbone. "Shut up and take your pants off."

 

Derek rolled his eyes, but obeyed, more interested in getting naked than in arguing. When they were both naked, he tugged Stiles down on top of him again. It seemed as natural as breathing to taste and touch every strip of skin he could reach, the flavor of him even headier than his scent. He laughed faintly at the way Stiles could not manage to get words out, especially every time their cocks slid and rubbed, leaving warm, damp spots on skin.

 

"I'm going to murder you," Stiles said between biting kisses.

 

"You can try, but I think we'll both be happier if you just fuck me," Derek replied.

 

Stiles froze and then groaned, biting kisses turning eager, wet and sloppy. Derek held him close, fingers tight in Stiles' hair, and calmed the kisses down, turned them into a slow burn as he reached for the drawer of his nightstand with his free hand, snatching up the lube.

 

Drawing back, Stiles stared down at him with a look on his face Derek had never thought he would see there; it had never crossed his mind even in a joking manner that Stiles would look at him that way. That he'd want it. Return it.

 

"Oh, my god, stop doing that," Stiles said. "You're such—you." He saw the lube and snagged it, quirking a brow and Derek knew the question, shook his head. "Well, for the record, I'm clean."

 

"You're an _idiot,_ " Derek replied and yanked him down again, huffing when Stiles squirmed away after a quick, hard bite to his bottom lip—mollified when he pressed sucking kisses and easier nips down Derek's torso. He tensed when Stiles' tongue dragged across his skin, bad memories flashing—but it was magic and citrus that filled his nose, clung to his skin. It was Stiles, not a mocking, malicious shade.

 

All thoughts fled when that mouth, that evil fucking mouth that drove him crazy, wrapped around his cock and began to demonstrate that Derek had only the barest idea of the many talents that mouth possessed. "Fuck," he bit out, hips moving, driving his cock deeper. He stared transfixed as Stiles glanced up at him through his long lashes, mouth and tongue and throat working hard, sucking like Stiles had no other goal in life, lips stretched wide and cheeks flushed.

 

Stiles broke the staring contest, shifted so he could brace his hands on Derek's thighs. Derek groaned, head falling back, hips moving, body desperate for a fix only Stiles could give him. Sure fingers cupped him, gently fondled his heavy balls before sliding back to explore further, deeper, teasing before vanishing again. Derek swore softly and he knew, just knew, that if he could Stiles would be laughing at him.

 

The fingers returned just as Stiles pulled off his cock. Derek snarled and glared, but then one warm, slick finger pushed inside and hostile words turned into a sharp gasp. It had been a long, long time since he'd let anyone fuck him. New York seemed like a different world, a dream-rich sleep to which he would never return. Didn't want to return, not anymore.

 

"You're ridiculous," Stiles muttered again.

 

Derek just smirked, rolled and shifted to take the finger deeper, raising his brows in a silent challenge that earned him a scowl and another finger, a sharp kiss that made his skin prickle.  "Get on with it, Stiles. I'm not one of your fussy dates."

 

"My dates aren't fussy," Stiles muttered. "They're just _normal humans_. Stop sneering, your superiority complex is showing." He withdrew his fingers, spread Derek's thighs wider and settled between them, lined up his cock and pressed slowly inside.

 

Growling low, Derek moved his hips again, taking more, nails scoring Stiles skin, eliciting a full-body shudder that made Stiles' eyes glaze over briefly. Shaking himself, Stiles muttered something Derek couldn't entirely catch but mostly sounded insulting, and thrust all the way inside him.

 

"Better," Derek said. "But there's room for improvement. Didn't they teach you how to do anything in college?"

 

"Oh, my god, shut up, shut up," Stiles said, and proceeded to demonstrate that he had, in fact, managed to learn a few things.

 

When they finally stopped, they were a mess of sweat and come and lube, panting as they lay tangled together on Derek's damp sheets. Stiles grunted and turned his head on Derek's shoulder so he could speak clearly. "So I guess I have to call my dad and say we might have been wrong about a couple of things."

 

Derek yawned and shifted slightly, settling more comfortably. "Tell him later."

 

"Lazy," Stiles muttered, but was asleep before he completely finished speaking. Derek listened to him for a long while, enjoying the beat of his heart, the scent of _them_ thick on the air, until contentment pulled him into sleep as well.


End file.
